means?” She stuttered severely on “do” and “dog.”
He shrugged, condescension rising with sweet cologne. “Sweetie, even the dogs can’t take the summer heat. They walk around with their tongues hanging out, huffing and puffing and beat to hell. It makes their little doggy minds go whacko. Watch out it doesn’t happen to you.”
“No,” replied Isobel. “It’s from the da-da-Dog Star. It’s how the Indians knew it was the height of summer. The da-Dog Star is the brightest object in the night sky in August.”
She paused, attempting to follow that up with her most ferocious, cobra-snaky stare.
He rolled his eyes and waved her away.
Isobel Gitlin’s byline topped Billy MacNeal’s obituary, but nowhere in it was she permitted to mention Hopman’s name.
New York
Tom Maloney thought it was a very strange thing for Nathan Stein to say. “That could have been me,” he said the day after Hopman was murdered. “Hopman was always asking me to play golf with him. ‘Come up to Boston and bring your clubs.’ Shit, I hate golf.” And then Nathan said it once again: “That could have been me.” The little man had entered Maloney’s office seconds before, shoulders hunched, shuffling. He leaned over the front of Tom’s desk, gray eyes moist behind silver-rimmed spectacles, voice subdued, mouth showing no tension, almost at rest. Tom said nothing, but it struck him that Nathan Stein obviously believed Christopher Hopman’s killing had been a random act of violence, that Hopman was murdered purely by chance. No such possibility ever occurred to Tom. Why, he asked himself, did he think it might not be? A man like Hopman, he reasoned, a man who played under the boards with elbows flying, had enemies. It was only a thought, and Maloney quickly relegated it to a far corner of his perpetually crowded mind. “You know, Nathan, many people think there’s a reason for everything.” In rare moments Tom’s better nature got the better of him and he could not deny or conceal his continued affection for Nathan Stein. Somewhere in the daily strain of minding, handling, nursing, he could actually experience sympathy for the small man around whom his life revolved. This was such a moment. He wanted to give it oxygen.
“You really think so?” Nathan looked at him with a curious, sentimental expression.
“At times I do believe that,” Tom said, nodding benignly.
“Well, I guess you may be right. Thanks for being here, Tom.”
Maloney didn’t think about Hopman’s killing again until a month later when reviewing a proposal by the Whitestone Broadcast Group, which desired to compete with the industry giants and required $465 million to do it. Tom liked the package. Broadcast ownership fascinated him. You get your license, your exclusive franchise, straight from the federal government and pay nothing for its asset value. Not much different from getting a driver’s license. You make money-often a fortune-using the public’s airwaves, and when you’ve grown tired of it, or for any other reason that strikes your fancy, you sell the now inflated asset value of the very same license you got for nothing. “What a racket,” Tom thought. The Whitestone people didn’t have a chance in hell of achieving their goal, and with a flicker of regret Tom tossed it on his pile of deals he’d have nothing to do with. CNBC was droning from one of the lineup of monitors on his wall. Tom heard the cute anchor, the one with the tiny waist and the collagen puffed lips, announce that Houston whiz-kid Billy MacNeal had been murdered. It happened at his home, she reported, right in front of his wife. On his diving board. Maloney was astonished. Mother of God! “In his own fucking house!” he thought. Jesus Christ!
Nathan Stein did not see it on TV. His secretary got a call. This time he did not shuffle into Tom’s office. He barreled in, chin out, shoulders held rigidly back, thrusting his toes outward, strutting as he did when adrenaline drove him. He went straight for the liquor in the corner and poured himself a bourbon and water.
Maloney’s office was traditionally decorated: restful dark woods and carpet, and modest lighting from a few table lamps and two floor lamps, each smoothed by heavy brown shades. The glass wall overlooking Manhattan was framed by a soft, shadowy, maroon window treatment. He kept the white, translucent drapes closed. Tom cultivated an understated, old-school look. It made him feel more than successful; it suggested to him that he was comfortable with success. Nathan often sought escape from the overwhelming sunlight and dramatic cityscape pouring into his own brash fantasy of an office. When stress rose within him, threatening to bust him wide open, Nathan came here looking for nurture, and Tom’s decor seemed to help. Nathan threw a couple of ice cubes in his drink and plopped himself down on the oxblood leather couch in front of Tom’s impressive array of televisions.
“A little early for that, isn’t it?” Tom suggested, pointing at the whiskey.
“Maybe it’s a little late, a little too late.” Nathan took a long swallow. “This MacNeal business,” he said. “I don’t like it. Hopman a couple of weeks ago-”
“Last month,” Tom said.
“Yeah, a couple of weeks ago. Now MacNeal. Christ, Tom, they said Hopman was cut in half. Can you imagine that? Have you thought at all about-are we both thinking what I am?”
“Anything’s possible, Nathan. You want to check into it?”
“Fuck yes, I do. If this has anything to do with that mess, we’ve got a double shithouse on our hands.”
“I doubt it,” Tom said. He’d spent the morning thinking the complete opposite of what he just said to Nathan Stein. Maloney knew Stein had his gifts, and he was often at his best in threatening situations, but not when he envisioned personal jeopardy. That sort of danger, perceived or real, more often than not threw Nathan into confusion and paranoia. Tom was determined to do his utmost to keep Nathan on an even keel. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“How?”
“Put it out of your mind, Nathan. I’ve got it covered. I’m sure there’s nothing here, but it never hurts to look.”
“If we have a problem, it’s got to be fixed. You understand?”
“Nathan, put it out of your mind, please.” Tom walked slowly to the couch and put his arm on Nathan Stein’s shoulder, offering him a familiar reassurance. “We know people who know people. I’ll get someone on it immediately.”
“People for this? We never did this.”
“Well, we’re doing it now,” said Maloney.
Tom Maloney made two telephone calls and then told his secretary to cancel his appointments and transfer certain calls to Wesley Pitts. He left the office and didn’t return until late in the afternoon. On his way back he called his secretary, who confirmed that Mr. Stein was still in Tom’s office, having left only once, presumably to use his own bathroom. Tom found him, drink in hand, on the couch.
“Been sitting there all day?” Tom asked.
“I like it here,” Nathan said. “Watch a little TV. Have a little something to drink. Take a nap if I want.”
“Mi casa, su casa,” said Tom while thinking, “You’ve got a bedroom, for Christ’s sake.”
“So, what have you got?” Stein asked, suddenly alert and impatient.
Maloney told him he had spoken with “a friend” right after their earlier discussion. The “friend” gave Maloney a name and a number. “I called him. We set up a meeting and had a good talk.”
“Where?” Nathan asked.
“A deli on Queens Boulevard. Great corned beef. He’s on the job already. We got the right man for the job.”
“Really?” said Nathan Stein. “You don’t look so sure.”
“Well, look, Nathan, we don’t have much to get him started. I certainly didn’t share any sensitive information-not that he wanted to know-but I couldn’t tell him who to look for, could I?”
“Right,” said Stein. “I know that. You think he’ll find out who this guy is?”
“We don’t even know if it’s anyone at all. These things may be totally unrelated. Either way, it’s under control.”
“Sure,” Nathan said, playing with Tom’s universal remote, switching channels on the various monitors. Then he sat straight up and looked directly at Tom Maloney. “Who does this kind of work anyway?” he asked.
Maloney was afraid he’d ask that. He had devoutly hoped not to have to answer that question. It was better left unsaid. “Actually,” Tom thought, “everything about this is better left unsaid.” But Nathan Stein was the boss,
